


Beneath the Hood

by BearlyWriting



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Deepthroating, Dry Humping, Frottage, Identity Porn, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 19:55:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20494454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BearlyWriting/pseuds/BearlyWriting
Summary: This isn’t how Clark thought his night would end: pressing Bruce Wayne against the hood of his car in a very public parking lot, the billionaire blood-hot and throbbing in his mouth. Not that he’s complaining.





	Beneath the Hood

**Author's Note:**

> There is so little plot here that it barely even makes sense. *Shrugs*

Clark Kent doesn’t do fancy parties. That’s what he had told Perry the first time the man had asked him to attend one, and yet, somehow, he keeps ending up at them. It’s Bruce Wayne’s fault, he thinks, a little bitterly. Clark had gotten one good quote off the man and now Perry sends him to every party the billionaire has even a sliver of a chance of attending.

It’s not all bad, Clark will admit. The canapes are usually pretty good, and the company isn’t usually too bad, and most nights the alcohol is free, although Clark never has more than one glass of champagne. Tonight was one of the better parties - a swanky art gallery event where the rooms had been full of delicate sculptures and brightly coloured paintings and the huge, full-length windows had opened onto a sweeping view of Gotham’s city skyline. It had looked remarkably beautiful from up there - lights twinkling, all of the dirt and grime and poverty hidden beneath a hazy orange glow.

It’s considerably less nice in the underground parking lot where Clark had left his car. It’s a concrete and metal monstrosity, lit by artificial orange strips that flicker every other second, filled with cloying diesel fumes and a hot metal stink. The unpleasantness would surprise Clark, except he doubts a single one of the high-class patrons upstairs have ever parked their own car. Most of the vehicles in here will probably be brought back up to the gallery by trusted chauffeurs or valets, and Gotham city’s finest won’t have to worry about fumbling their keys out of their purses in the dim lighting.

It’s not something that bothers Clark, particularly. There are certainly worse places, even in Metropolis - especially when it comes to parking lots. This one doesn’t smell of piss, at least. It wouldn’t even be a problem, except that Clark’s car won’t start.

He twists the key again. Listens to the engine turn over with a dry rattle. The sound bounces back at him strangely, echoing around the cavernous space, until it dies with a pathetic wheeze. Clark smacks the flat of his palm off the wheel without any real feeling, takes a deep breath, and steps out.

Maybe it will be a quick fix? Clark sheds his jacket and slings it carelessly into the front seat before moving around to the hood of the car. Like most things Clark wears, the suit jacket is a bit too small for him, straining across his shoulders, pinching under his arms. It’s a relief to take it off. He rolls the sleeves of his suit up and pops the hood to get a look at the engine.

It’s not immediately obvious what’s wrong and Clark allows himself a soft curse beneath his breath. It’s already late, and Clark is cranky from having spent all night speaking to increasingly drunk Gotham socialites. To make matters worse, Bruce Wayne hadn’t even bothered to show up. Briefly, Clark considers just slipping back up onto the street and flying home. He isn’t wearing the suit under his clothes, but no one is going to see him anyway. He could be back home in his little Metropolis apartment in seconds.

A little trickle of guilt slides down his spine. He knows he shouldn’t abuse his powers like that, especially if there’s even the slim chance that someone might connect them to unassuming Daily Planet reporter Clark Kent. Probably, he should just suffer through the indignity of calling a mechanic like most people would.

In the end, the decision is taken out of his hands by the sound of soft footsteps against concrete. They’re quiet - so quiet that Clark wouldn’t have heard them if it wasn’t for his enhanced senses, so he keeps his hands braced against the car and carefully doesn’t look up. Doesn’t even tense, although part of him wants to. Just keeps his eyes on the useless engine in front of him and pretends he hasn’t heard.

The footsteps stop behind him. Clark can feel the heat of the person against his back, can hear the rhythmic beat of their heart, smell the apple and cedar wood of expensive cologne, and beneath that, something strangely metallic. It’s a scent he recognises. So, Bruce Wayne has turned up after all, although Clark has no idea what he’s doing standing behind him in the parking lot of all places.

“Car trouble?”

The voice is soft, surprisingly deep, a rich baritone rumble that sends a strange shiver over Clark’s skin. (And he doesn’t particularly want to examine _that_ reaction right now). Clark had known he was there, of course, but he jumps obligingly, lifting one hand to press against his chest, half-turning towards the intruder. If Bruce could hear as well as Clark can, he would know that the shock is faked. Clark’s heartbeat is slow and steady under his own palm.

But he does a pretty good job acting it, he thinks. When he turns towards him, there’s a wry half-smile on the billionaire’s face, but no suspicion. Clark offers an artfully shaky laugh and lets his hand tremble slightly as he brushes it back through his hair.

“Jeez, you startled me. What are you doing down here Mr. Wayne?”

He has no idea if Bruce remembers him or not. The whole point of Clark Kent is to blend in where he can. It’s hardly likely that Bruce Wayne took any note of the country bumpkin reporter who he’d offered some throw-away line to once at a party.

The half-smile sharpens into something that pings a little warning in the back of Clark’s head. _Danger,_ it tells him. _Tread carefully_.

“Sorry.” One shoulder lifts in a shrug that’s so careless it has to be practiced. Bruce steps forward, right into Clark’s personal space, and Clark bumps backwards, feels the heat of him so close to his chest. Not sorry at all then. “I can take a look at it if you like.”

Right. As if Bruce Wayne, of all people, is going to fix Clark’s car in some dingy subterranean parking lot.

“It’s fine, really. I’m just going to-“

But Bruce just takes another decisive step forward, and this one _definitely_ puts him in Clark’s personal space. Presses him right up against Clark’s front. One hand touches Clark’s hip, lightly, as if he’s steadying himself as he leans over him to peer at the engine. Clark’s own hand lifts to press automatically at Wayne’s shoulder.

It would be easy to push him away. Even without his super-strength Clark Kent is a muscular guy - it wouldn’t take much effort to exert a little more pressure, to send Wayne stumbling back, firm but polite. Clark doesn’t though, for whatever reason. Just stands, frozen, as Wayne presses his hips firm against him, as the strong muscles of his chest brush against Clark’s arm, as his hand tightens over his hip.

“Hmmm,” Bruce hums, and Clark feels the vibration in his chest. “It doesn’t look good, I’m afraid.” His free hand carefully unhooks the hood and lets it fall back into place with a metallic click. When he turns his head, his mouth brushes across Clark’s jaw, wet, soft heat. Clark shivers. Swallows thickly. The muscles of his neck are corded tight against the urge to jerk away, or maybe to turn his own head and meet those lips with his own.

What’s happening? Clark feels a little like he’s stepped into some strange alternate reality, where billionaires actually have a reason to be hanging around in underground parking lots, and practical strangers press themselves against each other without so much as a hello.

“No?” He manages through the tight constriction of his throat. He could have told Wayne as much. Maybe that’s the point.

“No.”

There’s a hand on his other hip now, warm even through the material of his slacks. The mouth against his jaw slides over his neck and Clark can’t stop his head tilting back, or the little hitch of his breath. Wayne uses the grip to shift Clark back a little, sliding their hips together, until Clark is trapped between the hard, hot stretch of Bruce’s body, and the cool metal of his car. He can feel the jut of Bruce’s erection against his thigh. Feels the curve of the hood against his lower back and shivers helplessly.

This has spiralled totally out of Clark’s control. He isn’t actually sure if it was in his control in the first place.

A thigh slides between his legs. It’s surprisingly thick, ridged with muscle, and Clark’s breath catches in a moan as it presses against him. He hadn’t realised he was hard, but now it’s all he can think about, straining against the fabric of his pants, throbbing with the blood thrumming under Clark’s skin. He squeezes his own thighs around Bruce’s leg. Can’t stop the shallow rock of his hips. Bruce’s heart jumps, but his breathing stays even as he grates the stubble of his cheek across Clark’s jaw.

“Looks like you’re stuck here,” he murmurs against Clark’s skin, and he meets Clark’s strangled groan with a roll of his hips.

A hand lifts from Clark’s waist to tangle through his hair instead. Tugs his head back to bare the column of Clark’s throat to Bruce’s searching mouth. The easy strength in that movement honestly surprises Clark. He clutches, a little desperately, at Bruce’s shoulder with one hand, catches himself against the hood of his car with the elbow of his other arm. Bows back beneath the pressure of Bruce’s chest against his own. There’s no chance that Bruce could actually hold him, if Clark really didn’t want him to. But there is something thrilling about being covered so completely by the other man’s body, pinned by his hips and hands, the cold metal of the car at his back.

Clark bucks against the hold, rubbing himself against the thick muscle of Bruce’s leg. The fingers in his hair tighten. It doesn’t hurt, exactly, but it sends a thrill straight to Clark’s groin nonetheless. He groans, clutches harder at Bruce’s shoulder - too hard, maybe, but Bruce doesn’t complain, doesn’t shrug away from the bruising grip. Just rocks his hips against Clark. There’s something lazy about the way he does it, something casual in the grip of his fingers and the press of his body, as if this is something he does everyday, pinning strangers against their cars and -

Oh. A hard shudder trembles over Clark’s skin. They’re still in the parking lot - in _public_ \- grinding against each other like horny teenagers where anyone could walk in and catch them at it. Of course, Clark would hear anyone long before they had the chance to take them by surprise, but that’s not the _point_.

“Wait,” he manages, and he’s surprised by how breathless his voice is. How low and rough and wrecked he sounds already. Bruce pauses, hums, brushes his nose across Clark’s cheek. “Maybe we should move somewhere -“

He’s cut off by Bruce’s mouth covering his own. It’s not quite a kiss - more of a hard press of lips against him. Clark’s mouth is open and Bruce takes advantage, sliding his tongue against Clark’s, licking over the roof of his mouth, the soft skin of his cheek, closing teeth over his lower lip. Clark inhales shallowly through his nose, eyelids fluttering. The hand on Bruce’s shoulder slides to his neck, warm skin under Clark’s palm. Bruce’s pulse beats steadily under his fingers.

There’s a low growl, then Bruce’s hips jerk against him. The thigh between Clark’s legs shifts, pressing inexorably upward, until Clark is balanced precariously on his tip toes, his weight heavy on the elbow propping him upright, his back bowed in a curve that would be uncomfortable for someone more human. Bruce’s mouth doesn’t leave his and when Clark gasps, Bruce swallows the sound, scraping teeth hard over his lip. Heat blooms low in Clark’s pelvis and he bucks again, but with Bruce pressed so tight against him, there’s barely any room for movement.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Bruce murmurs, low and rough, against Clark’s mouth. The hand at Clark’s hip slides up over his stomach to palm across his chest. Clark shudders under the touch. Trembles at the wide span of Bruce’s fingers, the heat of his palm. Imagines it somewhere lower and can’t help another aborted rock of his hips. 

Fingers brush against the buttons of his shirt. Then a hand slides under the soft material, warm and dry against his skin. Clark groans, arching up into the touch, prickling with anticipation. Already his nipples are stiff peaks, even without any real contact. If Bruce just slides his hand a little to the right…

There. Those searching fingers catch on a nipple and electricity sparks in a blazing line from that small point of contact all the way to Clark’s groin. His breath catches and Bruce presses more firmly against him, pinching lightly. A whine slides out of Clark’s throat and Bruce wrestles it off of his tongue before it can escape, flicking his fingers over the tight bud and groaning into Clark’s mouth at the high, choked moan that elicits.

Clark writhes. Gasps. Feels the urgent press of Bruce’s erection. Needs more. Needs -

Clark drops his hand to Bruce’s hip. It’s easy to flip him over, to press him back into the hood of the car, to switch their positions with casual strength. Bruce’s mouth drops open. One hand is still clenched in Clark’s hair, the other tangled in Clark’s shirt. His eyes are dark with lust and Clark ducks his head beneath the intensity of that gaze, mouths along the sharp curve of his jaw instead, sucks a bruise into the pale skin of his throat. There’s something thrilling about leaving his mark there. Bruises don’t last long on Clark’s own skin.

Bruce’s chest hitches. “Not so shy now, Kent,” he murmurs and Clark grins against his neck. He’s as much a blushing virgin as Wayne is. It’s not his fault the billionaire underestimated him.

He catches the wrist of the hand still tucked under his shirt. Pulls it free and lifts it to his lips. Nips gently at the calloused pads of Bruce’s fingers before sliding them into his mouth. Bruce‘s breath catches in a hitching gasp that prickles heat through Clark’s stomach. He lathes his tongue across soft skin, tastes expensive hand soap and, underneath, something like leather. Bruce’s head tips back, jaw flexing, and Clark drags the fingers out of his mouth with a lewd pop to press his lips against the hollow of Bruce’s throat instead. The fingers, now relinquished, dig into the meat of Clark’s shoulder hard enough to bruise - if he could bruise, that is.

Clark scrapes teeth across the jut of Bruce’s collarbone. Puffs hot air across bare skin when Bruce’s fingers tighten. When he glances up, Bruce is watching him through hooded lids.

Clark smiles. Presses a final open-mouthed kiss to Bruce’s throat. Then drops to his knees between his splayed legs.

“Fuck.”

It’s a gratifyingly breathless curse. Clark runs his hands up those thick thighs, tugs Bruce’s shirt free from the waist of his slacks, curls his fingers around the soft skin of his hips. The sliver of pale flesh peeking out beneath the drape of his shirt has Clark’s mouth watering.

This is crazy. Clark feels a little wild. He’s never done this before - not with a practical stranger, not where anyone could walk in and catch them. It’s so far out of the realm of his experience. And yet, he doesn’t hesitate as he leans in and presses a kiss to the warm, taut skin of Bruce’s stomach. Feels his muscles twitch beneath the touch of his lips.

Above his head, Bruce inhales sharply and the fingers in his hair clench hard enough that Clark’s sure he would have lost a chunk if he were somebody else. He bites in retaliation, nipping a little harder than strictly necessary. It doesn’t seem to bother Bruce, but Clark follows it with a slick swipe of his tongue anyway. Blows gently against the damp line left behind. Watches Bruce’s skin prickle.

When he hooks fingers into the waistband of his slacks, Bruce’s hips jerk, searching for contact. It makes Clark smile against his stomach. Throbs heat low in his pelvis. It’s difficult to parse the strange knot of sensation in his gut: excitement, nerves, arousal so strong that Clark _aches_. When he pops the button open and slides down the zipper, Clark is surprised to find his fingers are trembling. 

There’s a damp spot on the front of Bruce’s grey silk underwear. The urge to taste it rushes over Clark like a wave, something that can’t be ignored, like the ancient pull of the tides. He leans forward. Presses his tongue to that obvious desire. Tastes salt. The musky smell of Bruce’s arousal is strong in his nose. Beneath his tongue, Bruce’s cock throbs, blood hot, and Clark can’t stop the moan that slides out of his throat. Can’t stop himself from mouthing at the jut of Bruce’s cock, lips fitting tightly over the head, lathing his tongue against smooth fabric.

Bruce shudders, twisting, his hands flexing where they’re pressed against Clark. Clark slides his own hand under the silky material and touches him. Then there’s warm, velvety flesh under his fingers and lust spears through Clark’s gut. He needs to get rid of the material between them. Needs to get his mouth on Bruce’s skin with a sort of fevered desperation.

It takes all of Clark’s superhuman control to stop himself from just tearing Bruce’s underwear off of him. Instead, he slips him free with deft fingers. Then Bruce’s cock is in front of him, naked in the chill air of the parking lot, thick and flushed and already leaking precum in a pearly little trickle.

Clark presses his open mouth to that thick shaft. Let’s his eyes slide shut. Feels the cock twitch against his lips as Bruce gasps. Chases the taste of salt all the way to the leaking slit and swipes his tongue across it with a moan. When he finally closes his mouth over Bruce’s cock, something settles in Clark’s chest, warm and satisfied. He’s aching in his pants, but he doesn’t want to relinquish his hold on Bruce’s hips, so he just shifts his knees a little, swirling his tongue over the head of Bruce’s cock and sucking hard.

A hand touches his cheek, gently. Even with the cock in Clark’s mouth, it feels startlingly intimate and Clark lifts his gaze, trying to read Bruce’s face where it floats through the dim light above him. There’s lust there, gaze dark and heavy, but a softness, too, that makes Clark’s heart jostle in his chest.

He drops his eyes again, sheathes his teeth carefully behind his lips and hollows his cheeks. Time for his party trick. It’s not exactly a responsible use of his powers - and there’s a hot prickle of shame at that thought - but it’s not beyond the realm of human possibility either, so he allows himself this. Bruce Wayne is hardly likely to care when his cock is buried in Clark’s throat.

So Clark relaxes his muscles, takes a deep, slow breath through his nose, and swallows Bruce down until his nose is pressed against his pelvis.

The groan that Bruce lets out as Clark takes him into his throat has Clark’s own cock throbbing. Has his own groan rumbling through his chest, and Bruce gasps at that too, his hips stuttering, as if he would press himself deeper if he could. The hand in his hair stays gentle though, gripping but not pushing. And the fingers against his cheek flex, but don’t press any harder.

There’s a fire burning in Clark’s gut, fed by the heavy weight of Bruce’s cock, the thick stretch of it against the muscles of his throat. The soft touch of Bruce’s fingers against his skin. Clark hums, swallows, flexing around Bruce. 

“Shit,” Bruce gasps and his hand moves frantically over Clark’s face, touching his cheek, his throat, palming over his jaw, brushing a thumb across the moisture beading at the corner of his eyes. “God, Clark...Clark…”

Something thrills through Clark’s chest at the sound of his name in Bruce’s mouth. He holds himself there for a beat longer, right on the edge of what he could manage if he were human, before he pulls back, working his tongue up the shaft as he breathes shallowly through his nose. Holding Bruce steady with a firm grip on his hips as the man twitches after him.

When he presses his tongue up under the head of Bruce’s cock, the man groans again, and suddenly Clark feels dizzy with the need to touch himself. Feels a little like he might explode if he doesn’t relieve some of the pressure. Feels a little like this might actually kill him where so many other things have failed.

Clark slides his hand down to squeeze his own aching cock, rocking back and forth against the pressure. A moan crawls up his throat and Bruce echoes it, twitching, pressing his cock further into Clark’s mouth. There’s no risk of him choking, but Clark slides his other hand across Bruce’s taut stomach anyway. Spreads fingers across his skin. Holds him still as he takes him back into his throat.

When Clark finally fumbles his own pants open, the touch of fingers against his cock sends electricity sparking up his spine - even if they are his own. He strokes in time with the bob of his head as best he can, sucking in soft wet pulses, sliding his thumb over the tip of his cock. Above his head Bruce’s breaths are short and ragged, shallow, desperate gasps. He must be close. Clark feels right on the edge himself, even though he’s barely been touched.

As if reading his thoughts, Bruce lets out a stuttering moan. The hand in his hair tightens. Fingers brush over his cheek. The cock in Clark’s throat twitches. 

“God, Clark, I’m going to…”

Clark swallows. Hums. Works feverishly at his cock. Bruce makes a strangled sound. Then he’s pulsing against Clark’s tongue, shooting salty come straight down Clark’s throat. Clark swallows rhythmically, holding Bruce steady against the hood of his car, pressing his tongue hard against smooth skin.

Clark keeps himself there until Bruce starts to soften, then pulls back, dragging his tongue in a long, slow slide against the soft skin of his cock. It makes Bruce whine, a muscle in his thigh twitching at the overstimulation. The sound shoots straight to Clark’s own cock. He gasps with his now-empty mouth. Presses his forehead hard against Bruce’s hip as he jerks his hand almost painfully fast. Fingers card through his hair. A thumb brushes over his jaw.

“Clark,” Bruce whispers and Clark comes so hard it’s almost painful, white-hot pleasure surging through his chest, burning like fire in his veins. Wet heat splashes over his fingers, over the dark leg of Bruce’s slacks, as his hips jerk desperately through the tight circle of his fist.

“Oh God,” Clark gasps. 

Bruce cups the back of his head, pulling him close and Clark ruts the last of his orgasm out against his shin, smearing come all over Bruce’s leg. He pants, hot and wet. Trembles with the aftershocks. When he finally goes still, Bruce pulls gently at his hair until his head is craned back far enough for their gazes to meet. There are tears in Clark’s eyes, a thin, shiny film that Bruce’s face wavers through like ripples on a pond.

Neither of them speak. Bruce tugs again on the hair in his grip and Clark rises to his feet with easy grace. Too easy. There’s a sharp glint in Bruce’s eyes that sends a shiver over Clark’s skin. He surges forwards to cover it, pressing their mouths hard against each other, stroking his tongue over Bruce’s when the other man’s mouth parts beneath the pressure, smearing the taste of his come into his mouth. Bruce groans.

Then he’s pushing Clark back with gentle hands. Carefully doing his fly back up and smoothing down his hair. Clark fumbles with his own pants. If it weren’t for the white smear of semen on Bruce’s leg, the swollen bruise of his lips, the hickey poking over the edge of his collar, you wouldn’t be able to tell anything happened at all. Not looking at Bruce, at least. In contrast, Clark feels as though everything that just happened is painted across his face.

“I’m sorry about your car, Mr. Kent.”

Clark can’t tear his eyes away from that white stain. He runs his tongue over the roof of his mouth. Tastes salt. He feels...he’s not actually sure how he feels. Confused, maybe. Still a little aroused, if he’s honest with himself, and that has a flush of embarrassment creeping over his cheeks.

“It’s not your fault,” he manages. When he finally looks up, Wayne is smiling.

“Maybe not, but why don’t I drive you home anyway?”

That little spark of arousal blows into a flame. The confusion is still there, floating at the back of his mind, but Clark has been confused about a lot of things in his life, and this is definitely one of the more harmless ones.

He hopes.

“You mean your chauffeur will drive us home?”

Bruce smirks. There are keys twirling between his fingers, Clark isn’t entirely sure how they got there.

“I always drive, Mr. Kent.”

Is it an abuse of his superpowers to be hard again already? It’s not like he can help it.

“If you insist.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed :)
> 
> I have a tumblr at [bearly-writing](https://bearly-writing.tumblr.com/) if you fancy dropping by for a chat!


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